Matinees With Miriam. Vicki Essex

      “Your room is at the end of the hall, top of the stairs,” Nancy said, handing him a key. “Get out of that suit and I’ll send it to the dry cleaners in the morning. I’ll bring you supper.”

      “And an ice pack, if you please.”

      Nancy frowned. “Are you hurt?”

      “Just my pride,” he said with a grimace.

      After a stinging-hot shower, he applied the ice pack where he needed it most and sat down to his laptop, connecting it to the in-room Wi-Fi. In minutes, his inbox flashed nineteen new messages.

      Typical. The partners at Sagmar had been hesitant about sending him as the rep because of what they perceived as a “soft heart” toward the town that had hosted him during so many childhood summers. “We need you to go for the jugular,” the senior project manager, Laura Kessler, had told him. “Companies will be swarming this place looking to buy up real estate for development as soon as they realize what a gold mine it is.”

      Sure enough, there was an email from Laura, reminding him that the longer he took to convince Miriam Bateman to sell, the higher the price for the Crown would go. Rumors of a new high-speed commuter rail line hadn’t yet leaked to the general public, though, so the town’s property values hadn’t changed. And as long as Miriam Bateman remained in the dark, she couldn’t necessarily demand a higher price.

      It wasn’t exactly all aboveboard as deals like this went, but the rail project wasn’t set in stone, which was the only reason Shane didn’t feel completely deceitful. It was a shady enough deal as it was, since the president of Sagmar received the tip off-the-record. Laura had told Shane they wouldn’t be prosecuted if the information was leaked, but he wasn’t reassured.

      The rest of his emails were mostly minutiae from work. There was one from his parents in Brooklyn reminding him of his sister’s birthday next week. They knew he was working hard on this deal, but they didn’t know why: he had his heart set on buying one of the condo units so his parents would have a place to retire. They always talked about coming back to Everville for an extended stay, and Shane wanted them to have that. Besides, a new condo would be the perfect income generator and secondary leisure home.

      He was certain he could convince Miriam to sell before Priti’s party. He just needed more information about the theater owner. It was why he’d come to Everville—he wanted to face Ms. Bateman and get a sense of who she was. Emails and letters didn’t cut it. He was a people person. Once he figured out what motivated Miriam and what kinds of dreams she had, he’d know how to get her to sell.

      * * *

      THE NEXT MORNING, he walked downtown, marveling at how much Everville had changed. Unlike many of the locations he’d scouted in Upstate New York, this town had managed to evolve, avoiding stagnation against all odds. Where there had once been feed stores and midsize department stores, there were now trendy cafés, galleries and boutiques. There were still lots of empty storefronts, though. He remembered how busy and vibrant Everville had been when he was a child, but the town hadn’t suffered nearly as badly as other places Sagmar Corp. had considered for the condo.

      It was nice to see some things hadn’t changed: the local Chinese eatery, the Good Fortune Diner, was still thriving after all these years. It was the only place in the States he’d ever found sweet-and-sour chicken balls—he’d learned it was mainly a pseudo-Chinese staple on Canadian and British menus. He’d go in for a plate later.

      He headed for the grocery store. He preferred to fend for himself rather than eat out all the time. He didn’t need much—as fancy as his suits were, instant ramen, microwave dinners and peanut butter sandwiches suited him fine. He’d save the fine dining to woo Miriam Bateman, if it came down to it.

      As he was waiting at the checkout, Arty Bolton pushed a cart piled with boxes of groceries past. Shane paid and followed the older man to the parking lot, where he was loading a delivery van.

      “Good morning, Mr. Bolton,” he greeted cheerfully. Arty was as good a source of information on Miriam Bateman as anyone. He was definitely some kind of guardian figure in her life—Shane’s research on her hadn’t turned up any family connections apart from the Crown’s previous owner, Jack Bateman. “Need a hand?”

      Arty looked up and grinned. “Mr. Patel, good morning.” He stretched his back and winced. “My guy who usually loads the truck is off today. If you don’t mind...?”

      “Just Shane, please.” He placed his own bags on the ground and hefted one of the heavier boxes into the van.

      “And just Arty to you, young man.” The grocer craned his neck and spine with an audible pop. “Thing about getting older, you feel a lack of sleep a lot more keenly.”

      The man had unwittingly provided the perfect opening for Shane’s queries. “Did Ms. Bateman have any more issues after I left?”

      “Mira? Not at all. In fact, the sheriff tracked one of those kids down already. Local boy, barely sixteen. Ralph will probably be calling on you to ID him later.”

      “How was Ms. Bateman after I left?”

      “Mira’s tough,” Arty reassured him. “Gets it from her grandpa, God rest his soul. Stubborn as a mule. If I haven’t said it, thank you for rushing to her rescue.”

      “It was nothing.” After all, he’d been the one who needed rescuing in the end. “I’m glad to hear she hasn’t suffered from the incident.”

      Arty regarded him speculatively. “So you’re here ’cause you want to buy the Crown?”

      “The company I represent has been pursuing Ms. Bateman the past six months, but so far, she’s refused all offers.”

      “Yeah, she showed me the letters.” His tone revealed nothing of his opinion. “What’re you doing with the property once you get your hands on it?”

      “I think you’ll like it. Sagmar has plans for a twelve-story living complex with ground-floor retail space, more than sixty family-sized units—”

      “Condos,” Arty summarized with a frown.

      Shane smiled tightly. For some reason, people reacted negatively to the term. “Well, yes, but—”

      The grocer gave a dry chuckle as Shane handed him another box from the shopping cart. “You may have spent summers here, son, but clearly no one told you that you need to get to the point around these parts if you want to try to sell us anything.”

      “My team has spoken at length with the mayor about redeveloping that vacant block. This project has been in the works for a long time.”

      The older man shrugged. “I’m not sure people will welcome a condo as readily as you think. We’ve had a lot of change around here lately—all the water main construction, the wind turbines, the old businesses shutting down...it’s been difficult. Putting up condos, though, is another thing.”

      Shane knew that. No matter where Sagmar built, they always faced opposition from not-in-my-backyarders—or NIMBYs—environmental groups, heritage preservationists, even religious groups. His specialty was answering questions, presenting facts and changing minds. It was why he was the top negotiator at the firm. His record for closing the deal was perfect; he wasn’t about to break that streak.

      He finished loading Arty’s van. The grocer offered him a ride back to the B and B, and Shane accepted.

      “I’d like to give Ms. Bateman a gift to apologize for my intrusion last night,” Shane ventured as Arty drove. “Would you happen to know what she’d like?”

      Arty scratched his chin. “To be honest, I don’t know that a gift would get you out of the dog house. I did mention she’s stubborn, right?” He sent him a loaded though not unfriendly look. “But you can’t go wrong with flowers and chocolates. Women like those. Visit the Main Street Florist. Talk to Janice. She’ll take care of you.”

      Shane suppressed a smirk.